Beneath the Masks of Truth and Lies
by ColourHunter
Summary: Post-Riechenbach. Now that Sherlock is doing god knows what in his "afterlife", poor Molly is left watching over London, and more importantly, John. Of course, its only natural that now Sherlock's gone, all hell breaks loose.


**I feel terrible for abandoning my APH fanfic to work on this, but my brain switches fandoms so fast that I can't keep up.**

**Hullo there! This is my first ever Sherlock fanfic, so I'm really sorry about any OOC-ness which is bound to happen, and I'm sorry if it sucks in general. Oh, I think it's also worth mentioning that I am a lazy, obnoxious and ignorant American, so...I apologise to all the Brits out there. I'm too lazy to go back and fix shit, and I'm writing this for the hell of it. Please don't britpick...I mean, you can if you want, just know that I won't fix it...I might use it as a reference for other chapters though...meh, whatever. Enough of my babbling!**

**I don't own Sherlock. BBC, Moffit, Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle do.  
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><p>It was so painfully obvious how he faked his own death. Sherlock knew that, Molly knew that, but no one else. It came as a shock when he came to her for help. It made sense though, considering her second home was the morgue at St. Bartholomew Hospital. That didn't surprise her at all. It was the fact that <em>he<em>, of all the people asked for _her _help. The great Sherlock Holmes, the Reichenbach Hero, asking for plain, mousy, little Molly's assistance. She was happy to oblige of course, if not a little taken aback. After all, it wasn't every day the world's best—and only—consulting detective asked for help…unless you were John Watson, and even then, it was only under rare circumstances.

All it took was her duties as coroner and an audience of the homeless network to make sure everything went according to plan and to make sure John stayed out of the way long enough to make the performance convincing. Overall, everything had gone smoothly, everyone played their role masterfully. However, that didn't change how Molly felt about the whole ordeal. She knew the plan, hell, she came up with half of it, but that didn't make watching the man she had respected for so long, at one point loved, plummet off a rooftop.

Declaring him a dead man was easy enough, but she was positive she broke at least one law and placed her job at risk. They—no, he—was too clever to let that happen. Not that it wasn't stressful. There were so many factors that have potential to go wrong, and if they do, the entire plan would go south. But Molly always did her best work under pressure. Perhaps it was her starving need for attention, or maybe it was to impress him, either way, she made sure to give her A-game and the plan followed through with only one hitch. That hitch was inevitable though. It was only natural that John would try to prevent Sherlock from falling, and that was simply a minor variable that was easily canceled out with the help of the homeless network. Although, getting ran over by a cyclist might not have been the best way. The fall, by far, was the most difficult part of the plan.

Once inside St. Bart's, Molly ran interference and made sure to get Sherlock down to the morgue. An easier task than expected. Before the fall, Sherlock took pills that slowed his heart enough to make it appear as if he had no pulse. It was risky, and Molly was impeccably curious as to where and how he obtained such drugs, but at the same time, she felt it involved something shady, and decided it was best not to know. Once the paramedics realized Sherlock lacked the obvious signs of life, they practically handed him over. Not that either of them could complain. She wheeled his body into the morgue, and as quickly and as carefully as possible, she laid him on one of the metal slabs in which she preformed autopsies.

With difficulty, Molly continued to work according to schedule. She had to determine the C.O.D of a man who was stabbed, beaten and drugged, run a tox-screen for a suicide case and assist Anderson—the dinosaur as he was called in her journal—at a robbery crime scene. Then, of course, would come the never-ending stack of paperwork and reports. Molly considered this to be the most tedious part of her job; not only was it time consuming, it was boring. Every now and then, she would glance up to check on Sherlock, and each time she would be disappointed to see he hasn't moved.

It wasn't until late that night he regained consciousness. Molly had fallen asleep at her desk, where she was reluctantly finishing Anderson's report, and a fit of coughing awakened her from her needed sleep. She wiped the embarrassing bit of drool from her face and slowly stood up. Excitement and relief bubbled in her chest. Thank god he's not actually dead. She couldn't bear the thought of taking her scalpel and picking him apart like she did with so many others.

She walked quickly to the side of the table where Sherlock could be found a bruised, bloody, and coughing mess. He was perfectly still with the exception of his head and chest due to his whooping coughs. Molly picked up a towel and metal tray, and held it up to his mouth to catch some blood. His eyes snapped open, revealing the cold, calculating, blue eyes she had recently found the courage to look into.

"Welcome back," she half-smiled.

Sherlock spat into the tray, grimaced slightly, and groaned once more before allowing his head to meet the cold metal beneath it, creating a sickening CLANK, making Molly wince. "I've always wondered what it would be like waking up on an autopsy table."

Molly furrowed her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side as she ran the towel under some water, preparing to clean his wounds. "You've slept on the autopsy tables several times before now," she stated.

Sherlock made an ambiguous noise that was either a laugh or a cough, most likely the latter. "Resting, not sleeping. I don't sleep while on a case. Even if I were, I never felt like I was actually dead."

Molly gently pressed the wet cloth against his face, washing away the blood. "You jumped off the roof. If you were expecting anything different you'd be—,"

"Mad?"

Molly huffed at being interrupted, something she probably should have been used to, while working with Sherlock. "I was going to say unrealistic, but sure, I suppose 'mad' works just as well." She continued to clean his face free from blood in silence. When she finished her task, she took a step back and sighed. "Are you alright?" she asked softly.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do recall falling off a building."

"That's not what I meant. According to the records, you're dead now."

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, clearly not seeing Molly's point.

"Sherlock…you—you're a dead man. You can't just strut around London the way you used to. You're famous and the moment you show your face in public, the press is going to be all over you."

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and growled at the pain in his cracked and fractured ribs. "I'm well aware Ms. Hooper. That's why I'm going to be living at your flat until my injuries heal."

Molly blinked. "What?"

"You heard me, Molly."

Molly shook her head and her hair whipped back and forth. "Wh-when did we decide this?"

"_We _didn't decide anything. I on the other hand thought ahead. You're the only one who knows I'm alive, and considering I have nowhere to stay now, your flat is the only logical place for me to reside while I heal."

Molly's face flushed lightly. She felt extremely uncomfortable. "I-ah-um…," she swallowed loudly and her shoulders slumped. "Okay."

Sherlock quirked a dark eyebrow and continued to stare at her with his cold calculating gaze. She hated that look. It always made her feel as if she was being studied from underneath a microscope. In a sense, she supposed she was. She helped him fake his death, apparently she's letting him stay at her flat, she might as well have stripped down to her panties just to see how he would react—the thought had occurred to her quite often, but she had too much self respect to ever do anything like that. Not to mention she was shy and embarrassed for thinking something like that in the first place.

"Is that a problem?" he asked.

"Y-ye-yeah. I-I mean no. It…it's not a problem," Molly laughed nervously. "It's just…how are we going to get you out of here? We can't just stroll out the front door."

Sherlock, who sat upright, swung his feet off the slab, and shot her a mysterious, if not mischievous smirk. "Molly, dear Molly. That is exactly what we're going to do.

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><p>After unlocking her front door, Molly opened it with a tired push. A task more difficult than normal since she was being used as a crutch to help Sherlock walk. How the hell they managed to make it out of St. Barts without being spotted was beyond Molly, but she was glad to have made it out without losing a limb. One can never be too sure when dealing with Sherlock. They stumbled clumsily through the doorway and Molly guided Sherlock to her room, where she practically dropped him on her bed.<p>

She flipped on the lamp on her bedside table, which turned her pale pink walls a light tangerine colour. A small tabby cat that had been awakened by the shuffling of cloth and feet, darted out from underneath the bed and leapt up to investigate the stranger who laid in it. "Sorry. I'll try to make sure my cat doesn't bother you," she said sheepishly, picking up her cat and gently scratching it underneath its neck. Sherlock didn't respond. "Um…right, well, good night then. If you need anything, I'll be right outside." Once more, she waited for Sherlock to answer, but he didn't. She squeaked out a small "okay" and shut the bedroom door behind her.

She set the tabby on the ground and it trotted off to hunt for flies. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the sofa. She pulled the thin flowery blanket that hung over the back of the sofa over her and rested her head on a throw pillow. She got the sudden feeling in her stomach that the next few weeks of her life would were going to be miserable.

As her luck would have it, her gut feeling was spot on. Within a month and a half, Molly knew what it was like to be a single mum raising a troublesome child. That child being Sherlock. His injuries healed quickly. His ribs in two weeks and his leg in three, but he was suffering from one of the worst cases of cabin fever she had ever seen. The man was irritable, well, more so than usual. He complained about everything, from the clothes that Molly had bought for him while she had his usual wear dry cleaned to her cat, Tyger, not being able to hold a decent conversation. It wasn't Tyger's fault that Sherlock has such high expectations for cats.

Two months after the fall, Molly snapped. Part of it might have been the stress of work, but she was sure it was mostly Sherlock's fault. She came home from a particularly nasty day of dissecting, performing autopsies and Anderson. She nearly threatened him with her scalpel when he asked if she could work late that day. She really should have. Ever since she found out that he had a phobia of the surgical instrument, she'd been using it to her advantage. Unfortunately, at that moment, her scalpel was just out of reach. She reluctantly complied with his request and didn't get home until well past one in the morning.

She shook off her slip-on shoes and not bothering to turn on a light, she padded to the sofa. She's gotten no more than a few hours of sleep per night, and she was beginning to respect John Watson more and more each day, not only for his bravery and how well he's dealing with Sherlock's "death", but how he was able to tolerate Sherlock in the same flat for more than two hours at a time. Before she reached the warm, soft comfort of the cushions, her foot caught on something that she didn't remember being there when she left that morning and she fell forward, landing on the hardwood floor with a loud THUD.

She lay there, stunned before groaning and voicing her displeasure. Slowly, she pushed herself up and carefully made her way to the wall, where she groped for a light switch. When she found one, she flipped it on and shielded her eyes from the sudden brightness. Her eyes adjusted and when she saw what was before her, she gasped. Everything, from furniture to decorations, had been rearranged, and some things were completely gone.

"Sherlock!" she called. It was obviously his doing.

"What?" He responded, to Molly's surprise, from the kitchen.

She peered over the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat, to see Sherlock sprawled across the floor, underneath a small table with the cat on his face. "What…are you doing?" she questioned, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Sleeping," he grunted, his voice muffled by the cat.

Molly crossed her arms and scoffed. "Yes, I can see that. But what about my flat? Why is all the furniture moved around?"

Sherlock removed the cat from his face and got out from underneath the table. "Because I moved it, obviously."

Molly growled a little and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, I know. That's not what I asked—,"

"Ah, but that is what you asked, not necessarily what you meant. Perhaps if you phrase your questions more carefully, you'll get a clearer answer."

"Alright, fine. Why did you rearrange my furniture, Sherlock?"

He walked right past Molly and flopped onto the sofa where Molly had been aiming for just minutes ago. "Bored!" he answered simply.

Molly's eyebrows twitched. "You rearranged the furniture…because you were bored," she said slowly.

"Yes, I do believe that is what I just said."

Molly took in a deep breath and held it in for ten seconds before letting it out. She needed to calm down. A nice cup of tea should help. Yes, that's exactly what she needed, a nice, steaming cup of tea. She went to the stove to grab her teakettle, only to find that a sleek, shiny steel one had replaced the dull, copper one she had used since she was a little girl. She picked it up and looked at it in slight disgust. "Sherlock…what happened to my kettle?" she asked evenly.

"Hm? Oh, your old one was rubbish, so I threw it out and bought a new one. Don't worry, I ordered it off the internet using your money."

That's when Molly decided she had finally had enough. She slammed the kettle on the counter and stormed over to Sherlock. "That 'rubbish' kettle belonged to my grandmother and it means a hell of a lot to me! I would have thought that a bloody good detective like you would have been able to tell something like that by some…oh, I don't know, by some smudge on the handle or the dents on the bottom! I have had it with you! I have had it with your complaining about everything! I have had it with your piano playing in the middle of the night! I've had it with your neglecting to put the food away, and my god, learn how to change a bloody toilet roll! I am sick and tired of it! How the hell John was able to stand you is beyond me!" she was livid. Her hands were clenched tightly and she was breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Taking in three deep breaths, she calmed herself down for the second time that night. "Get out of my sight," she finally said. Sherlock didn't move. "I said GET!" she snarled, pointing to the bedroom door.

That warranted movement from Sherlock. If Molly was angry with him—and Molly rarely gets angry—he must have done something wrong. Sentiment, he concluded. Whenever people got emotional over an object, it was always because of sentiment. He stood up from the couch and quietly walked back to Molly's bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Feeling emotionally and physically drained, Molly took Sherlock's place on the sofa. It was warm. She snuggled closer and hugged a throw pillow close to her face. It was wet within minutes. She didn't bother turning off the lights. She knew she wasn't going to get any sleep that night anyways.

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><p>She rolled off the couch when the first rays of sunlight started to shine through the window. She splashed her tear-streaked face with water and didn't bother applying makeup. Why bother, she thought. It's not as if she was trying to impress anyone anymore. She slathered a piece of bread with some jam and glared at the steel kettle on the counter. It's going to be a shitty day, Molly thought. She grabbed her back and keys, and opened the bedroom door a crack, just to make sure the room was still in tact.<p>

Sherlock was lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, staring vacantly at the ceiling. To her surprise, nothing in the room had changed, or if it had, Sherlock had moved it all back to their original spots. She decided to apologise to him when she got home, later.

Her day wasn't nearly as bad as she thought it would be. Sure, she was elbow deep in blood, bile, puss and other bodily fluids, but she wasn't interrupted often as much she had the past few weeks. Everything had gone back to the way it used to be and it was as if the world had forgotten about Sherlock Holmes. She even had lunch with Detective Inspector Lestrade, whom she had not seen nor spoken to since before Sherlock fell. It was pleasant spending time with someone who wasn't Sherlock or Anderson, even if all they did was sit and eat in silence, with the occasional small talk. After lunch, she went back to being elbows deep in bodily fluids before deciding to leave early and pick up some Chinese food. Overall, the whole day had been unnervingly ordinary. Probably something, that should have raised a red flag in Molly's head.

She got home early, at around 6:30 and was in a much better mood than when she had left. It was time to apologise to Sherlock. She set her bag, keys, and the Chinese food on the counter and opened the bedroom door. "Sherlock? Are you in there? Listen, I just want to say that I—,"

He wasn't there. In fact, there wasn't anything to suggest that he had been there at all. Puzzled, Molly looked in the other rooms—i.e. the closet and the restroom—but he couldn't be found. Then it dawned on her. All of her furniture was back in their proper places and sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa was her old kettle tied in a piece of navy blue cloth with a sheet of paper beside it. She sat down and untied the cloth, realising it was Sherlock's scarf. What was going on? She picked up the sheet of paper scrawled in Sherlock's distinct cursive. It was a letter.

_Molly,_

_First of all, I accept your apology. Secondly, I suppose I should apologise as well. I realise I am not the ideal flatmate and I am sorry for all the trouble I caused you. John would have told me to leave you something as a token of appreciation, so I dug your teakettle out of the dumpster. I have also given you my scarf. If you do not want it, please give it to John._

_Speaking of John, I want you to keep an eye on him for me, and I want you to send me monthly updates on anything involving him or Moriarty. Write a letter and give it to Loretta. She is the homeless woman who sleeps in your flat's back ally. Do not address the envelope and do not, I repeat, do NOT take the letter to the post office. My brother will get suspicious. Do not bother attempting to contact me electronically. I have a new phone and an new identity._

_Tell John that I am sorry. And remember Molly, you do count._

_Goodbye and Thank you,_

_SH_

_P.s. Please put the new kettle to good use, it was rather expensive._

Molly reread the letter several times before she realised that Sherlock had left and wasn't coming back anytime soon, if ever. She felt a dull pain behind her eyes and a throbbing in her temples. What the hell had she gotten herself into? More importantly, where the hell was that Scotch.


End file.
